


Home

by mindy_makru_tutu



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Missing Scene, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2019-09-18 11:31:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16994202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindy_makru_tutu/pseuds/mindy_makru_tutu
Summary: In the aftermath of his marriage breakdown, Elliot searches for a home. Missing scenes & post-ep for "Blast" (the first part takes place during the episode, the second after the episode's completion).





	Home

 

** i. **

He assumes he's dreaming.

It wouldn't be the first time. It wouldn't even be the hundredth time he's dreamt about her body, her sighs. About his open mouth against her skin. About his palms cupping her breasts. About Olivia's legs opening and enveloping him, about his hips pushing insistently between them.

The dreams have escalated since his marriage breakdown, growing longer, more frequent, more fevered and more vivid. They were always there though, lurking beneath the surface of consciousness. Even in his marriage bed, he often woke to a raging stiffy and a silent, accusatory glare from his wife. Maybe he groaned his partner's name, sighed it in his sleep as he dreamed. He never asked how Kathy knew. But she knew. Afterwards, she'd banish him to the couch for weeks and refuse to have sex with him for longer. Which was fine by him. Elliot loved his kids but he definitely didn't want to have any more of them, especially not while his marriage was in the excruciatingly slow process of disintegrating. Lying sleepless on the family couch, feet dangling off the end and a permanent crick in his neck, he had to wonder whether that was the underlying appeal of having sex with his partner. That it would be sex for sex's sake. Sex that was not about family, duty, fidelity, piety, procreation. Sex with Olivia would be about pleasure. Bone-deep desire. Pure, unadulterated need. Love, even.

Maybe even real love.

His banishment to the couch never stopped the dreams. Kathy's unspoken wrath stemmed them awhile, briefly displacing his erotic visions. But he still had them, couldn't stop them. Whether he was sleeping on the lumpy family couch or on a crib at the stationhouse with a dozen fellow officers. Once, he even had one while dozing in the sedan on stakeout, his partner sitting vigil beside him, barely two feet away. That particular time, he'd imagined just reaching across, placing a hand on her knee, sliding it up to her fleshy thigh, soft beneath the stiff denim. He imagined slipping his fingers down, into the groove between both thighs, into the warmth he'd find there, the warmth that would increase if he ventured further upwards, cupping her cunt through her clothes. In his dreams, Olivia always reacted favorably to his attentions. Instantly – without hesitation or reservation. In this dream, she simply turned her head toward him, let it fall back against the headrest. She let her eyes close, her mouth drop open and her hips lift towards his touch.

In reality, his partner whacked his arm with the back of one hand, telling him he needed to wake up because she needed to go pee. Then she exited the car and jogged down the street to an accommodating bodega. Elliot had shifted in his wrinkled clothes, hauled himself upright, blinked his eyes and pulled in a breath. It was a disappointing comedown. But one he was used to, almost grateful for. The life that had been his reality for over twenty years was crumbling about him. So it made sense that, in the few moments of peace afforded him, fantasy often asserted itself. The woman who had been the focal point of his life since late adolescence had left him. So, again, it made sense that the other woman in his life – the one forever on the margins, the one who'd anchored him, comforted him, protected and formed him – became his new focus. A prominent force in both his conscious and unconscious realities.

At least, that's how he's always rationalized the dreams to himself. Their persistence and frequency. Their intense allure. An allure that made him actually want to reach out and touch his partner. Do something— _anything_ to draw her closer, to feel her body against his. To feel her mouth open to him and her tongue tangle with his own. The dreams have a definite charge, one that increases with every occurrence. They shock his entire system, sending tingles down his spine, through his limbs, over and around the cavity where his broken heart still hopefully beats. He knows he should suppress them, will them away. He knows he should feel shame and guilt, he should repent for his sins after each foray into fantasy. But he doesn't. He doesn't want them to go away, doesn't want them to fade. And while they last, he never, ever wants them to end.

This one is by far is the longest, the realest. He can feel – not just fragments – but every last inch of her. Her smell his so real, so right, so overwhelmingly Olivia. Not just on her skin but everywhere – all around him, in the cool bedroom air, in the bed clothes they inhabit. The weight of them against his back is making his body overheat, his chest and groin sweat. Her sounds are different to how he'd always imagined them – quiet when he imagined they'd be loud and loud when he'd never imagined anything at all. Her hands don't follow the path his imagination dictates either. And never before has he visualized how her hair would look splayed on the pillow. He can't believe he's never considered that. It's gorgeous and sexy as hell. Most incredible of all though is that this dream isn't fading. It's not ending. It just keeps going. Nobody is slapping him awake, eyeballing him like he should be ashamed of himself.

Elliot opens his eyes. Pulls back. And looks at her.

Olivia shifts her head on the pillow, blinks blearily up at him. Reaching out, he touches her hair on the pillow. God, he loves the sight of her like that. That golden hair let loose on the pillow, her face without makeup, her eyes glinting in the darkness. Her hands are both resting on his hips, his hips resting in the cradle of her thighs. Those light, smaller-than-his hands shift, slip up just slightly, under the hem of the undershirt he still wears. Both of them are still clothed. He still wears his undershirt and briefs. Olivia is still dressed in her pajamas, loose plaid pants and a thin, cotton t-shirt through which he can see her peaked nipples. Elliot withdraws, flings off the suffocating covers then lowers himself back to her body. One of her legs curls around his, her naked toes caress his calf. He closes his eyes, drops his head to her chest and just breathes.

"You okay?" she murmurs after a moment. She places a light kiss on his forehead, fingertips drifting down his lowered face. She pauses before adding, voice more tentative, "We…don't have to do…anything, you know. We could just…"

His own heated breath is bouncing off her bare chest and bathing his already flushed cheeks. Hearing her voice like this – so normal, so rational while her body is wrapped around his – is strange, incongruous. She sounds just like his partner, just like Detective Olivia Benson, only with a bedroom tinge to her tone. He lifts his face to look at her, to listen to how she's going to finish her sentence. Because he can't predict that either.

"We can just… _do this_ ," she whispers simply. "If that…if you…—"

She shifts beneath him and he can feel her body stiffen with guilt, with doubt. And that's when he knows for certain. This is not a dream. Guilt never had a place in any of his dreams. Nor did complication. Or uncertainty. Or veiled discussions of his failed marriage and how it might affect his sexual competence.

Olivia takes a breath, averts her eyes and starts a new sentence. "If you're not ready—"

He kisses her. He stops her mouth with his, closes his eyes and parts her lips and chases the kind of pure pleasure he hasn't known in decades. He knows this is not a fantasy. But he wants the fantasy, wants sex for the sake of sex. Sex for the sake of love, of pleasure and hunger and desire. He wants Olivia for the sake of Olivia, despite all the perfectly sane and rational reasons he shouldn't. He also wants a moment – just a moment of clarity – to catch up. To retrace exactly how he made it into his partner's bed, how his clandestine dreams suddenly and startlingly became so real.

* * *

 **  
** He hates working cases alone. Or, at least, he prefers working them with a partner. With his partner. He loves his job – as much as a person can love something so soul-destroying – but he's better at it with Olivia at his side. His instincts are sharper, his reflexes faster, his stamina longer lasting. He did okay with Melinda as his surprise sidekick. It was certainly better to lose the perp than to lose the vic. And the satisfaction he felt when reuniting a little girl with her grateful parents was worth the inner pang he also felt as he watched them all clutch each other close.

That sweet comfort of family was something he no longer had in his life. Not on a daily basis. And not without countless complications attached to it. He missed the comfort, if not the complications. Their weight and angst and stifling entanglement. He missed having a familiar place to go home to, one special person to always return to. Not that Cragen knew this when he told him to go home and get some sleep. Elliot had nodded silently, his back to his boss. He did not divulge that he no longer had a bed of his own, a closet, kitchen, bathroom of his own. After Kathy left, he lived in their family home for several months. Alone. Surrounded by all that space, all that history, all that emptiness. It was more than he could bare, a punishment Kathy knew would ultimately cause his capitulation. He finally agreed to a permanent separation, to speak with his wife's divorce lawyer. When he did, he insisted that Kathy and the kids have the house, that they live there to give the kids some sense of security, of continuity.

His own sense of security went out the window that day – though it had probably been a false sense of security for much longer than he wished to admit. Packing up his belongings, Elliot had told his future ex-wife that he already had a lead on a new place, a small apartment close to the precinct. He'd lied. He'd been living out of his locker ever since, pulling overtime shifts and sleeping in the crib. He crashed at an old Marine Corp buddy's place a few times. But he couldn't stand sleeping on his couch – or rather, not sleeping on his couch while his buddy made out with his girl in the next room. He'd been to see a couple of overpriced rat holes that some dodgy Manhattan realty claimed were habitable. But his job left him with little free time to hunt for a new place in which to start a whole new life, to start building, if possible, a new home for himself.

The word echoes in his head as he steps off the precinct's ancient elevator. Cragen did, after all, order him to go home and the 16th is currently the closest thing he's got to a home. Rounding the corner, he sees his partner walking toward him, exiting the squadroom just as he's heading for it. A feeling of relief instantly washes over him – because there's his walking, talking sense of continuity, right there. His step slows and his lips curve up as they meet in the corridor. And when she speaks, his eyes feel too weary to hide their affectionate glint. She looks beautiful. Angelic, with the overhead lighting making her hair look like a golden halo. It's always during these late-night moments in the silent, still squadroom that he remembers how beautiful his partner is. It's not that she looks any different or has changed at all. It's just him, how he looks at her in those lingering moments. It's probably just him this time too – how he's missed her, how he needs her, what a wreck he is without her – that is altering his perspective on his partner. Olivia stands there in an ordinary coat with dog-eared files hugged to her body, a familiar frown of concern on her face.

He wonders whether this meeting is accidental or of Cragen's devising. He knows his captain sometimes calls Olivia in if he is working a case by himself and needs someone to talk to, confide in, bounce ideas off. Someone to empathize with him or recenter him. He knows this because he's been on the opposite end of such a call. Cragen has also called him in more than once, alerting him to the fact that his partner needs him. On such occasions, he often finds a dishevelled Olivia at her desk, surrounded by dusty boxes of files. Or in an incident room, coffee stained sleeves pushed up as she pins horrific pictures to a timeline. Or he'll find her passed out on the couch upstairs, a folder open on her chest and several more littering the floor about her.

He's not sure this is one of those occasions though. Olivia isn't there to check on him, to discuss the case or bolster his confidence. She's been focused on a court case and, he assumes, is just there to pick up the folders hugged to her chest. She congratulates him on his catch but then moves past him, asking offhandedly if he's going home. Again, the word repeats in his head. _Home_. One of these days, his boss and partner are going to figure out that he is effectively homeless. For now, for tonight, he just avoids the question. He's not sure how convincing he is, how convincing he wants to be. Because he feels his partner's curious eyes on his back, tracking his movements as he continues on his path. He pushes through the squadroom doors then slops upstairs to the crib. He's barely lain down, only just closed his eyes when he hears her shoes start to rap softly on the stairs. Elliot rubs his eyes, keeps them closed, folds his arms over his chest. He keeps up the pretense of sleep as she enters, as Olivia takes a seat on the end of his bed and, for a moment, says absolutely nothing.

"Thought you were going home."

"I am home," he replies, cracking his eyes and looking up at her.

She sighs, glances around the crib, waits for an ambulance siren to pass by. "El…if you needed a place to stay—"

His shoulders shrug. "I don't."

Olivia ignores the interjection, finishing her sentence in a soft voice instead. "…all you had to do was ask."

"I'm…" he toes off his shoes, kicks them over the edge of the tiny cot, "between places right now. It's temporary—"

"Come on." She taps his leg with her files then gets to her feet. "Let's go."

He turns onto his side on the bed, hugs his pillow with one arm. "Nah, I'm good. I've got…gym, shower, coffee pot. A real short commute—"

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," she mutters, tucking her folders under one arm and heading for the door. "It's _late_. Let's _go_."

Elliot lifts his head, raises his brows dumbly. "…Where?"

Olivia turns on the threshold, fixes his gaze with hers. "Home."

* * *

 **  
** He likes Olivia's home, he's always found it very homey. It smells nice. Like burnt candles and soft spices. It has comfy cushions and tasselled throws everywhere. Just no food, never any food.

They eat take-out in front of Letterman and Dave makes both of them actually laugh out loud. They don't talk about their respective cases or much of anything else. It's late, there's no time. So as the latest band plays the latest love song, Elliot washes up their dishes while Olivia makes him a bed on her couch. He's grateful, happy to be there. But God, he's getting sick of couches. He's sick of the way their cushions shift and separate, sick of their hard arms and short lengths. Sick of feeling like an exile, an outcast, like a person without a place. Which is, he supposes, exactly what he is. He knows Olivia's couch is going to be no more comfortable than his family couch or his buddy's couch. But he smiles and thanks her, starts to unbutton as she retreats to her bedroom. He lies on the couch in his undershirt and briefs, listening to the sounds of her showering, the soft fizz of the spray and the splatter of the water bouncing off her body and onto the tiles. Elliot turns onto his side, eyes drifting around her living room. They touch on her coffee table, an open newspaper, a program from an art exhibition, a collection of photo frames, a bowl of flowers, a pair of slippers, a rack of magazines, a clutch of travel brochures, a potted plant, a stack of CDs, a tub of moisturizer, a cup of pens, a pair of earrings and matching bracelet. All the bits and pieces that make up a home.

He hears Olivia exit the shower, hears her twist the taps then open the door. He listens to her potter about in the bathroom for a while, remembering how he used to listen to Kathy do the same thing. And then, at some point, he stopped listening, stopped paying attention, stopped being intrigued by her fragrant feminine mysteries. Several minutes pass. Then the bathroom door opens and a light flicks off. He hears her mattress creak and can tell from the proximity of the sound that the door to her bedroom is still partially open. Elliot closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on getting some much needed sleep. Dreamless sleep, if possible. Before drifting off, he wills his brain to forgo – for one night, at least – images of fleshy thighs, full hips, heaving breasts, haloed hair, open lips and dark brown eyes that beg him to enter her, take her and never ever stop moving as deeply within her as he can reach.

* * *

 **  
** He doesn't sleep. Can't. Which is not much of a surprise. He stares at the ceiling for hours, studies the patterns cast by the streetlights coming through Olivia's gauzy, wafting curtains. Her neighborhood is noisier than Queens, with partiers passing by on the street, cabs honking impatient horns and those ever-present New York sirens drifting by. Eventually, Elliot sits upright, swings his feet to the floor. He grabs his watch from the coffee table, glances at it then tosses it down again. He rises, arching slightly to stretch out his creaking back. When he finally finds a place to live, he vows on his life that he's gonna get the best bed that money can buy. And no couch. He doesn't need to look at or sit on or be anywhere near a couch for a good decade or so.

He shuffles towards Olivia's bedroom, the carpet soft beneath his feet. Stopping at the door, he reaches out and pushes the half closed door open a little wider. He can't see much, just a lump under the covers, in the darkness. He can hear her long, slow breaths though and tries not to disturb her as he creeps across to the bathroom. He eases the door shut behind him, turns on the light then lifts the toilet lid. Taking out his penis, he lets his head loll back on his neck as he pees. A long, thick, relieving stream. It's almost a pleasure since pleasures for him are currently so few and far between. After flushing, he washes his hands in the sink, splashes some water over his stubbled face. Then, leaning forward, he examines himself in the mirror. His skin is growing dry and craggy with age and any wounds inflicted on him take much longer to heal. There's still a slight scar over one brow from that suspect who turned on him and Olivia. His fingers drift down his face – he desperately needs a shave, a haircut and decent night's sleep. Several decent nights' sleep. In short, he looks like crap. Elliot humphs at his reflection, flicks off the light and turns to the door.

He tried to be quiet, tried not to wake her. But when he opens the bathroom door, Olivia is sitting up in her bed. Her hair is mussed and her bare feet are planted on the rug by her bed. She's perched on the edge of her big mattress in plaid pajama pants and a plain white tee. Shoulders slouching, she looks up, runs a hand through her hair as he exits.

"Is it the case? Or the couch?"

Elliot lets out a sigh, leans a shoulder against the doorjamb.

"Like I said, El. You'll get him."

He nods, casts a glance toward her couch but doesn't move, doesn't speak.

"You just need to sleep on it," she adds a moment later, voice lower and crackly with sleep.

"Yeah…" He chuckles lowly, humorlessly. Because he really doesn't know how to broach such an audacious request as the one on his brain.

They've slept together before though, hundreds of times. He knows what her body looks like, curled on one side, lax with sleep. He knows what her breath sounds like, what her face looks like, how her limbs curl unconsciously about her. It shouldn't be such a big deal – he wants her to tell him it's not such a big deal. Two beds, one bed. Partners, friends. Married, single, separated, divorced. What the hell does it all matter? What does it matter if sometimes he dreams about her? Fantasizes about her body, her sounds, her sweet-smelling sex? How does it matter if he desires every inch of her when, really, right now, all he wants her for is her bed? All he wants is that slice of mattress beside her, that extra pillow, that feather doona that no doubt smells like candle wax and spice and woman.

Seeing him eye off the temptingly vacant spot, Olivia smiles and ducks her head. "I know. I've slept there. My couch…sucks..."

He takes a step closer, folds his arms over his chest. "Think they invent them as torture devises? To punish wayward husbands?"

"…S'possible," she murmurs, lifting her feet from the floor and crossing her legs on the mattress. "But…this bed…" she glances over her shoulder at the tousled sheets, adds carefully, "…was not."

Elliot shifts on the spot, lowers his gaze to the floor. He really wants that mattress, aches for her pillow and sheets, longs for a soft, warm body sleeping beside him. But he dreads those dreams, those wonderfully wicked images that have been interrupting his sleep with such regularity, such impunity. "Not sure…" he admits, putting some laughter in his tone to disguise the seriousness of his meaning, "Not sure I'd trust myself."

"Well…" Olivia gives a tired shrug and tucks her toes under the covers, "I trust you." She reaches over to turn off her lamp then settles on one side with her eyes closed, leaving the final decision up to him.

Elliot swallows, shuffles a little more, hesitates a moment then pads around the bed and lifts up the covers. Easing down onto Olivia's mattress is as about close to heaven as his sorry soul will probably ever get. He stretches his body out, lies flat on his back, nothing scrunched or dangling. He adjusts his head on the pillow, just to feel its perfect, soft plushiness. He glances across at his bed mate's turned back then sighs deeply and closes his eyes.

"Happy now?" she mumbles into her pillow.

Elliot sighs again. "You have no idea…"

* * *

 **  
** It happens in their sleep. They just gravitate towards each other, their unconsciouses leading them astray. And when they wake – bodies entwined, mouths joined and breaths quickened – they don't stop. They don't immediately withdraw their trespassing mouths and tongues and hands and limbs. They continue. Elliot continues pressing his hips, his hardness into the juncture of her open thighs. Olivia continues lifting her hips with each slow thrust he gives, continues sighing as he presses into her, as his lips plant a line of kisses down the blissfully stretched column of her neck. Elliot doesn't stop one hand from sliding under her butt, beneath her pyjama pants, cupping her flesh and lifting her toward him, pressing her to him for a sustained moment, making her breath hold as he grinds himself against her covered clitoris. He doesn't stop that same hand when it wants to slide up, cup her breast through her t-shirt, trapping and rolling her nipple between two fingers. And Olivia doesn't stop her lips from parting and releasing a long, low, keening moan.

Neither of them, even for a second, hesitates. At least, not until he begins coming to his senses, realizing that what's happening between them is actually happening. In reality. In Olivia's actual bed. With his actual partner of over seven years and under circumstances that will have definite and serious consequences. Consequences that become more tangible the moment she starts talking, the moment she starts sensitively referencing his failed marriage. But one thing Elliot is absolutely sure of is that doesn't want to talk – not about that, not about anything. In truth, he has nothing to say for himself. He doesn't know what he's doing, where he's going. He doesn't know who he is or will become without his family, his wife, his church, his home. He just knows that kissing Olivia like his life depends on it seems like a good place to start figuring out the whole mess. He just knows that feeling her body wrap around his, stroke against his, rise up to meet his makes him feel more wanted, more alive than he has since he was a maladjusted teen. All he really knows is that Olivia hasn't left him, Olivia is still with him, Olivia still loves him. Which must mean he belongs right there – in her bed, in her embrace – even if just for a night.

****

** ii. **

As soon as she gets Cragen's message, she rushes from the courthouse. She hails the first cab she sees, tells the driver it's an emergency. She curses any vehicle that gets in her way, any traffic light that slows her progress. She tries Cragen's cell but doesn't get an answer. She tries Elliot's cell, Melinda's – but either the signal in that area is overwhelmed with activity or none of them are free to pick up. Neither possibility bodes well.

Olivia shoves her phone into her pocket and concentrates on glaring at the traffic outside her window. She can't believe this is happening. Not now, not when they are so close. It's just over a year since her partner's marriage broke up, since his wife finally left him. She can't say she was completely surprised by the news. Nor was she surprised that he kept it from her. Elliot's never been very forthcoming on the subject of his marriage. At the beginning of their association, he was especially taciturn, only dropping the occasional, glowing remark on family life. Then, Elliot Stabler appeared to be the perfect family man with the perfect home. But Olivia soon realized there were problems – deep, hidden cracks in that life, as well as in the man himself – and that those cracks had existed for much longer than she'd known him.

Ironically, it was part of what made their partnership so strong, so close. She suspected that, in his relationship with his wife, Elliot often felt inadequate. He felt he should do more, help out more, contribute more, be around more. Kathy was always the one holding the Stabler home together – until recently, when she decided she no longer wanted to. Olivia had no wish to delve into why her partner's wife had made this decision. She'd long ago made it a personal policy to stay out of her partner's intimate affairs. So she didn't ask and he didn't tell. They never discussed his marriage breakdown, his wife's desertion, his separation from his children or his very obvious feelings of betrayal and rejection. She saw those feelings in him – in his body and face and stance, in his wrinkled clothes and weary scowls – but she said nothing. Mostly because she knew that what she could wordlessly offer was of greater assistance. She could offer him safety, stability. Continuity, purpose, friendship. And appreciation. For all he was – rather than a rejection of who he was not and never could be.

With her – she hoped – Elliot never felt inadequate. He felt competent, confident, strong, supported. The inequity of his marriage didn't exist in their partnership. She knew that was a relief to him, a small comfort he allowed himself daily. In their work, she and her partner both contributed an equal amount. The different skills they brought to each case complemented each other, producing tangible, sometimes touching results. Their support of each other remained constant, even when under enormous pressure, even when functioning as dead tired versions of their best selves. And if some other, somewhat furtive potential hummed beneath that status quo, beneath all that productivity and familiarity, their mutually agreed upon reticence guaranteed that it remained unacknowledged and unfulfilled. Or, at least, it had until the previous night.

She'd known for a week that he didn't have a place to stay, a place to sleep and shower and decompress. She'd let him save face, let him sleep in the crib. She'd pretended she didn't notice, given him time to figure something out for himself. She'd watched him wear the same clothes for three days in a row. She'd watched his jeans get scruffier and his jaw sport numerous shaving cuts. She'd watched the skin sag under his eyes and his shoulders begin to droop. And eventually, she caved. She didn't care how proud he was feeling. The man needed to get out of the 16th precinct. He needed a hot shower and decent meal and a good night's sleep. She couldn't offer him the decent meal since cooking was not a skill she possessed. But she had a cosy home, an empty couch and a better hot water system than the stationhouse. So Olivia took her vagrant partner in. She took Elliot Stabler home.

It all started out innocently enough. Letterman and take-out. Separate beds in separate rooms. Though, even as she drifted off, she was aware of him – breathing, dreaming, lying just outside her door, next to nothing covering that body she'd tried so hard not to notice. Because that body had always belonged to another woman. A woman she liked, a woman she respected. It didn't anymore though. Not anymore. And that body – it's size and smell – it felt so nice having it beside her in her bed. She hadn't slept with someone in so long. Years, probably. She usually had sex with the men she dated in their beds so that she could get up and leave whenever she wanted. Sneak back to her own apartment during the wee small hours, grab a few hours of sleep in her own bed. Alone. Because sleeping alone was what she was used to, comfortable with. Sleeping with Elliot was comfortable though. Too comfortable. She let herself enjoy it, revel in it too much. She let her guard down too far, let herself fall too deeply asleep. Because the next thing she knew, she was beneath him and he was right there – all of him, inches of ached for hardness – pressed between her legs. The next thing she knew her head was lifting off the pillow as she kissed him, tongued him, bit his lip to keep him from withdrawing.

Elliot had looked about as stunned as she felt. It was swift escalation from where they'd been. Which was probably why they didn't venture beyond kissing and caressing and dry humping in their pajamas. They hadn't stopped altogether – in fact, after they came to, Elliot began kissing her even harder, even deeper. He'd rolled them, pulling her body on top of his then grasping her butt with both hands and urging her down on his erection. She'd groaned with pleasure, started rolling her hips over him as their tongues continued to tangle. Her knees had fallen either side of his hips and she knew he could feel her wetness seeping through two layers of clothing. Still not believing that it was her partner's body beneath her, she'd dragged her breasts up his chest, feeling them tingle and tighten. This move had made Elliot smile. Smile into their kiss. He'd broken away just long enough to tell her how good she felt. _God, you feel good_ , he'd moaned in that same voice that uttered gory statistics or comforted upset victims or offered her a cup of bitter, lukewarm coffee. Hearing it like that, having his breath puff against her skin as he spoke, was a shock to her system. The best kind of shock. A shock unlike any other she'd ever known it her life.

Now, she regrets not saying it back to him, not telling him how amazing he felt. He had – but she'd chosen to relay this fact without words. Because she was so enjoying not talking with him. They'd done so much talking. God, just endless chatting and discussing and debating and contemplating and hypothesizing and questioning. And she'd enjoyed it, she had, every minute. She loved doing all of that with her partner. But that was before she knew the bliss of kissing him, of having his hands on her body and his hard cock between her legs. Talking was something they could do later. Much, much later. Making out with him, in that moment, had been a much more preferable option.

Olivia takes out her phone and looks at it. No calls, no messages. She tries Cragen again, sighs when her call goes straight to voicemail. She's hoping for the best but can't help considering the absolute worst. Can't help wondering whether the night before was Elliot Stabler's last on earth. Whether, if they'd known that, they might have been braver, they might have gone further than they'd dared to. He'd kissed her before leaving that morning. He'd come out of her bathroom, face freshly shaved, a towel wrapped round his waist and a smile on his face. He'd looked like a new man. And he'd only paused momentarily, it had only been slightly awkward, when he leaned down, hands planted either side of her on the mattress. He'd kissed her, soft and slow and slightly wet. His chest was still damp as she ran a hand down it. She'd told him she wasn't due in court until ten. Elliot had nodded and told her he had to go – he had a kidnapper to track down without her help.

Neither of them likes working solo. They both feel slightly unbalanced whenever they do. Olivia can't help but think that this wouldn't have happened on her watch, she'd have prevented her partner being taken hostage. Such thoughts are an occupational hazard in their line of work. From day one at the Academy, their duty to the citizens of their district, their fellow officers and their partner is drummed into them. Although the plain truth is that some tragedies can't be predicted or averted. Just survived. And they have survived so much so far. He has – Elliot Stabler is as hardy as they come. She knows that. But, just like every cop on the force, every hero that takes stand, he's made of flesh and blood and bones. She's not deluded enough to think otherwise. She's not foolish enough to think that his flesh can't be penetrated by a bullet, his heart stopped, his breath halted, his life cut short. She's seen it happen. She's made it happen. And, now more than ever – having felt the heat of his body and breath, how fast the blood in his veins can pump, how vulnerable a human body is when stripped down to its absolute essence – does she feel his mortality. How easily and quickly he might be taken from her. Right when they are on the cusp. Just as seven years of friendship and partnership are finally giving way to something more. Something they survived all those other threats in order to find.

* * *

 **  
** She exits the cab four blocks from the bank. She could run faster than the traffic is traveling. So she does. Heels pounding the pavement and skirt stretched taut with each step and jacket whipping at her sides. She weaves through the crowd towards the not too distant clump of ambulance trucks and police cars and curious spectators and temporary barricades.

She flashes her badge at the uni guarding the perimeter, keeps flashing it at anyone who looks at her funny. There's a lot of movement about though, it's not the tense stand-off she was expecting. She seems to have arrived in the aftermath. Senior officers are debriefing while ambulance officers calm freed hostages. Family members cry out to be reunited with their loved ones. ESU team members amble peaceably about. But there is shattered glass by the doors, spilled blood on the pavement. And no sign of Elliot. Olivia scans the crowd, checks the back of an ambulance. Then she spots Melinda Warner walking towards her, face drawn but body intact. When she asks where Elliot is, Melinda points over her own shoulder, in the direction she's just come. Olivia's eyes follow her hand, finding him standing on the curb, alone and ragged, shards of glass and plaster littering his suit. He is waving off an attentive EMT as she jogs up, comes to a stop in front of him then doubles over in puffed relief. She can't even say his name, her breath is so labored, and her partner's expression quickly turns from drained sorrow to amused affection.

He puts a hand on her bent shoulder. "You okay?"

"I'm…" she braces a hand against her knee and looks up at him, "…I was…Cragen called me…." She takes a wheezy breath, squints up at him. "You okay?"

Elliot withdraws his hand, glances over at the shattered glass doors. "Still in one piece." Taking her elbow, he draws her down to the pavement. "Here. Pull up a gutter."

He sits beside her on the gutter's edge, chuckles slightly as she gulps to regain her breath. An EMT passes by, hands her a bottle of water, probably assuming she is a distressed ex-hostage. Elliot takes one as well, twists the cap off and takes a long sip. Olivia takes shorter sips as her breathing begins to even out.

"What the hell happened?"

"Ah…" Elliot wags his head at the bitumen then sips his water again, "you can read it in my report."

"I was…in court," she tells him, the guilt from her absence resurfacing. "My phone was off, I got here as soon as I could."

"S'okay, Liv." He turns his head, looks at her sideways and there's a glint in his eyes, something extra and intimate that wasn't there before the previous night.

The look disappears though, because Elliot averts his eyes as Cragen approaches in his windbreaker. Their boss updates them on the condition of the kid Melinda shot. Then he tells Elliot he can write his report the following morning. Cragen casts a glance her way then turns his stoic gaze back on her partner.

"Go home," he mutters. "Get some rest."

Elliot nods a few times, gaze glued to his boss' retreating back. His elbows brace on his knees. His fingers absentmindedly peel away the label on his bottle. He opens his mouth, takes a breath then closes it again.

Olivia rises then turns to him, voice only faltering slightly as she asks, "Did you…— Do you want to come back to my place?"

He smiles, head bowed. Rising to face her, Elliot replies in a low voice, "I think we both know…what's going to happen if we go back to your place."

She looks down, swallows, murmurs, "Yeah…" Then she looks up again, looks her partner in the eye. "So…do you want to go back to my place?"

She holds her breath as she waits for an answer. She'll leave it up to him and it will have to be okay, whatever he decides. It's been a year – over a year – but that's a short recovery period after a twenty year marriage. Especially for a man as dedicated as her partner. She knows he's still reeling, he's still healing. And this may not be what he needs or wants right now. Even if it is what he wants, it may not be what Elliot is ready for. Even if she _is_ ready, so ready, for this, for him. Even if she's been furtively waiting, hoping for something like this to happen since that day he told her he was free, single, unexpectedly unbound – this still might not be the right time for them. There may never be a right time for them. Because maybe what he needs right now is a partner, a friend. Maybe that's all he'll ever need of her.

Or, maybe not. Maybe this is exactly what Elliot wants and needs and is ready for. Maybe this is actually, finally going to happen. She's starting to think so, to let long suppressed hopes take flight. Because Elliot's smiling at her, looking at her with that intimate glint in his eye, with one corner of his mouth curving upwards. He shuffles closer, dropping his voice further as he answers her question.

"Yeah, Liv. I wanna come back to your place."

Olivia smiles, swallows again then gives a short nod. "…Okay. Well. Let's go."

He mutters a soft _'kay_ , that small smile still curving his lips. Then they fall into step, one beside the other, as they move through the throng and beyond the barricades.

* * *

 **  
** Elliot's laughing at her again. Because her hand is trembling, making it hard for her to open her apartment door. It's not that she's nervous – it's not just that. It's the aftereffects of her panicked rush from courthouse to crimescene. It's just adrenaline – she wants to point that out to him. But Elliot sidles closer, chest grazing her back through their clothes. He plants a hand on the door, leans down and mutters in her ear:

"Open the damn door, Liv."

And God, that is so not helping. And he knows it's not helping. And he is enjoying this too much. And it is so unfair that he is perfectly fine and laughing at her when she was so worried about him just twenty minutes before. Thinking she might lose him, that he might lose his life. Olivia turns between his body and the door, meets his amused gaze with a more serious look.

"Elliot. You're not doing this because…" Her voice drifts off but her eyes narrow, scanning his face.

The amusement in his eyes recedes and his head ducks closer. "Because…?"

"Because you just had a near-death experience—"

"I didn't nearly die, I had it under control—"

"ESU being called says different—"

He leans in closer, pulls in a breath that she can feel because their bodies are huddled so close. "I'm doing this," he tells her, voice low and raspy, "because I want you. Because I've always wanted you."

Her lips press together, her tongue slides out to wet them. Her head bobs slightly as her breathing picks up. Then the solid weight of the door disappears from behind her back as Elliot twists her key in the lock.

He waves a hand, eyes still fixed on hers and voice still low as he mutters, "After you."

Olivia backs up a few steps, takes off her jacket and hangs it by the door. He watches her the whole time. He doesn't take his eyes off her as he divests himself of his own jacket, hangs it by hers then kicks the door shut. They stand for a moment, a few feet apart, facing each other in her quiet kitchen. Then she mumbles something about a drink and wades through the thick air to open a cabinet. Elliot silently shadows her. He runs a hand down her spine as she takes down a bottle. The same hand caresses her hip as she fumbles with two crystal tumblers. He sweeps her hair away from her neck, kisses her there as she pours. And when she turns to face him, handing him his glass, Elliot downs it like a shot then curls a hand around her neck, pulling her mouth to his before she's even had the chance to drink. She moans into his kiss, one hand clutching her glass in mid-air and the other immediately moving to the back of his head, anchoring his mouth to hers.

He tastes like warm, rich bourbon and she never wants him to quit kissing her. But Elliot is already undoing her blouse with eager, skilful, nimble fingers. His mouth soon rips away from hers and his head dips as he kisses and sucks the tops of her breasts, the flesh that's rising and falling above the cups of her bra, begging to be freed, begging for his touch and attention. He gives it some but then moves on, hands tracing her curves, moving down her body. Olivia lifts her glass to her lips, takes a large gulp of bourbon as she watches him settle on his knees in front of her. Sitting back on his heels and gazing up at her, he runs the fingers of one hand up the back of her calf. The light touch makes her flesh goosebump, sends an electric tingle up her spine. She lifts her glass again, downs the rest of her drink then tosses the glass back onto the counter with a loud clatter.

She rarely wears skirts to work, especially not the straight, restrictive sort she's currently dressed in. She only wears them to court when she is guaranteed not to have to run or jump or climb or tackle perps to the ground. She only wears them if she feeling particularly womanly and in need of some way to express that that her job does not allow. It's no real surprise that the previous night with her partner – its pleasure and frustration, its simultaneous satisfaction and dissatisfaction – had her reaching for that slim, black skirt this morning. That their unbridled make-out session had her feeling like a woman with secrets and desires, a woman with something to smile about, a woman with something thrilling to come home to. From his spot on the floor, Elliot smiles up at her. Then he reaches out, cups one calf and lifts it. He rids her of one black heel, causing her to shrink several inches. He cups her other calf, lifts her foot and slips off the other heel. Then he sits back again, stroking the sides of her lower legs with just his fingertips.

Still smiling his sly, closed-lipped smile, he gazes up at her a moment before saying, softly but straightforwardly, "Lift up your skirt for me."

Her eyes widen and her mouth opens. She can't help her surprise. She can't help so much of what is now happening between them. Olivia releases a breathy laugh, rolls her eyes slightly and mutters, "You really are enjoying this too much."

Elliot hums as her hands nevertheless reach down and begin bunching up her skirt. He leans in as the black material rises, licks her inner thigh with his hot tongue. "And you're not?"

"I'm—" She had a quip but it goes. Right out of her head. The instant he grasps her hips and begins attacking her thighs with his lips and tongue and teeth.

She continues lifting her skirt, exposing more skin for him to taste and treat. Her bare feet shuffle on the linoleum, parting her legs wider and inviting him higher and deeper. Elliot heeds her invitation, dragging the flat of his tongue up her inner thigh then tugging her hips towards him with both hands as his tongue runs over the crotch of her panties. Olivia gasps, one hand flying down to clutch his head. He draws his mouth away from her but then it's back, nipping her clit through the black satin, kissing the dark curls that peek out from the edges of her underwear. His fingers curl around the hem, drawing her panties slowly downwards. He pauses briefly to plant a kiss on her mons then continues dragging her underwear down her legs and over her feet. Once done, he lifts one leg, hitches it over his shoulder. Olivia grasps the counter behind her with both hands, feels her supporting leg almost buckle beneath her. Her eyes close as his palms skate up the back of her thighs then clutch her butt, his mouth starting to tug at her outer lips, open her up, spread her moisture. He squeezes the cheeks of her ass as he slips his tongue between her lower lips then flicks his tongue over her clit.

She jerks forward, nearly doubling in two – she's far too sensitive, way too close after the previous night's pleasure. All that desire he awakened. All that ecstasy he incited is still lingering, simmering, stirring beneath the surface, just waiting for the slightest touch to explode into full-blown orgasm. And she doesn't want that. Not yet. Elliot pulls back, looks up at her, bent over him, her hair falling about her face. Her eyes feel druggy, her vision is blurred but she can see that his arousal is as intense as hers, his need as immediate. The hardness she felt last night but never saw is tenting his trousers, blood pooling expectantly in his groin. She leans further down, slides a hand over his jaw and kisses him. Now, his lips taste like bourbon and her.

"Come on," she whispers against his lips. "Come with me…"

She lays her forehead against his a moment, lets her thigh slide off his shoulder. He extracts his hands from the folds of her skirt and she takes one in hers as he gets to his feet. She leads him out of the kitchen, into the living room and towards the couch. But Elliot stops, tugs on her hand.

"Not there," he murmurs in a gravelly voice. He changes their direction, takes the lead, pulls her towards her bedroom. "In here…"

Olivia smiles and follows, her blouse half unbuttoned and skirt hiked up around her hips. Once inside the bedroom, she lowers the zip at the back and slips the skirt off. Elliot undoes his tie, watching as she lets her blouse follow her skirt to the floor. Then, stepping up to her partner, Olivia unbuttons his shirt, pulls it apart and kisses the skin underneath. The man underneath. Her hands drop to his pants, loosening his belt and lowering his zipper. His pants drop to the floor as she winds her arms around her neck and fits her mouth with his. Lips fused, they drop back onto the bed they shared the previous night. Bodies already primed and familiar, their limbs immediately wrap and hands restlessly roam as their hips press unashamedly close.

* * *

 **  
** Elliot's been staying at her place for seven weeks. They have, essentially, been living together. She's never tried it before, never wanted to. She's had boyfriends who suggested sharing a place but Olivia always resisted the notion. She knew herself too well. She knew she needed space – partially because of who she was and partially because of the job she committed so much time and energy to. Elliot understood that though – he understood the job, the toll it took, the silent process she went through after every tough case. Which wasn't to say they hadn't had their less harmonious moments, moments of irritation or exasperation. But after working together for so long, those moments didn't come as too much of a surprise. Each knew how to deal with the other when they were feeling tetchy. And it was mostly her who got tetchy with him.

Elliot was, after all, much more practiced at sharing a space with other human beings. Unfortunately, he was also used to inhabiting a much larger space and having a wife pick up after him when he littered that space with smelly socks and wet towels and worn underwear. Whether she picked up after him or threw those towels, socks or pants in his handsome, smirking face, Olivia felt like a cliché. She soon resigned herself to this fact of living with a man though. Mostly because she and Elliot naturally gravitated to certain chores, just like they gravitated to certain roles in their work. At work, he played belligerent cop while she played compassionate cop. He dodged left while she ran right. He stepped back when a lighter touch was required and she backed him up when a stronger approach would get better results. Meanwhile, at home, she quit whining about his scattered towels and socks and briefs. Instead, she picked them up and threw them in with her washing. She hung his clean, dry towel in the bathroom alongside hers. And she folded his socks and underwear and placed them in a drawer she'd cleared for him.

In return, Elliot fitted out her kitchen with pots and pans and utensils, most of which she wouldn't know how to use. He filled her fridge with vegetables and fruit and wine and cheese and eggs and fancy meats she didn't know how to pronounce. He cooked breakfast for her each morning and washed up afterwards. He got her in the habit of taking fresh fruit to work. When she came through the door with their freshly laundered basket of clothes, he was often throwing together a pasta dish or a protein rich salad or a fragrant vegetable curry. Once, after she worked a long shift without him, she returned to find all the lights in her apartment switched off and every candle she'd ever bought but never used lit. The whole place smelled of ylang ylang and sandalwood and buttery garlic and rising pastry. Elliot had cleared her breakfast bar, set it for two and decanted a bottle of red. She'd sighed in relief as she eased onto her stool, smiled at him when she took her first sip. They ate, facing each other on their high stools, knees knocking and slotting between each other. Every time she lifted her wine glass and sipped, Elliot watched her throat stretch and undulate and one of his hands reached out to stroke her thigh. When they made love that night, it was especially slow – savoring and passionate, peppered with throaty laughter and erotic murmurings.

The sex – while undoubtedly and consistently spectacular – has not been her favorite part of living with Elliot. It is true that every time her partner slips inside her is special. A blissful relief, after such a long build-up. It makes no difference if they are standing naked and wet under the warm shower spray or lying tangled in sex-fragrant sheets. Or if he surprises her in her building's laundry room while she's sorting their whites from colors, props her on one of the gyrating machines and fucks her hard and fast. She loves it all, every flavor, every time. But her favorite part is more subtle, more soft. Her favorite part has got to be slipping into bed with his warm, naked body after a long day. Or lying in her bed in her pajamas and having him slip in beside her. Feeling his arms encircle her, feeling his breath on her neck, feeling his chest rise and fall against her back as he falls into a contented sleep. Occasionally, one of them will work a shift without the other, coming home late and finding the other already asleep. Slipping into bed on those nights is especially sweet. Having a warm body to come home to, someone to sleepily ask, _how was y'day?_ or _are you okay?_ When it was her joining him in the bed, Olivia just murmured a simple response. Because it wasn't really the answer that mattered. It was the question. It was the presence of the person asking it.

She knows it can't last. They can't go on like this together, not if they want to remain partners. They haven't talked about it but she knows that their partnership, their work remains a priority for both of them. They've taken great pains to avoid detection – arriving at work separately, taking different routes to crime scenes, leaving a sizable gap between their departures. They work with some of New York's finest detectives though. She knows they are probably not fooling anyone. She knows her colleagues probably know, can see in the tiniest details just how much has changed between them. She knows Cragen can. She's seen the looks, the troubled frowns he's given the two of them. He hasn't said anything. But she knows it's imperative that Elliot find his own place so they can maintain at least an illusion of their relationship being purely professional. Their relationship has never been purely professional and Cragen knows it. He's consistently looked the other way, ignored guidelines and regulations in order to protect them, maintain their productivity. She appreciates her boss' continuing silence but she and Elliot both know that, like their living arrangement, it's only temporary.

More recently, Elliot's started buying all the local papers, spreading them out on her coffee table and circling apartment ads. On his last day off, he went and saw a few places. He came back deflated and lost himself in her body. The next day, he went out again and had better luck. He's since submitted applications for several apartments and is waiting to hear back. His chances are good. His income is stable, his debts few. He has no full-time dependants, no pets and New Yorkers generally like having a cop in their building. Which means their days – as they have come to live them, like them, know them – are numbered. She will probably no longer have to pick up his socks and briefs and towels, scowling at him in annoyance. And she will not come through her door knowing each time that he's waiting for her – cooking shirtless in her kitchen or sleeping naked in her bed. There will not be that comforting moment at the end of each awful case when Elliot mutters _Let's go home, Olivia_ and they both know where he means.

Her apartment will feel empty without him. It's never felt more like a home than in the last few weeks when he shared it with her. Both of them seem intent on relishing however long they will be allowed to live together, create a home together before reality intrudes, duty beckons and Elliot moves on. When that happens, Olivia will help him pack, she will help him move. She will help him buy a big new bed. She will bring some of her candles to his new place, light them and make the air smell of sandalwood. She will draw his body close and suggest that they christen his new digs by making love in every single room. She will help him create a second home as intimate and comfortable and precious as their first. So that when she says at the end of a horrific case _Let's go home, Elliot,_ it won't matter whose home they go to. As long as they go there together.

_END._

For the rest of my SVU fic, go [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/812100/Mindy35). 


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